Had shrunk into your head, as though afraid
To watch more horrors; you were sodden-wet
With greasy coal-black mud—and other things.
Sweating and shivering, speechless, there you stood.
I gave you whisky, made you talk. You said:
“Major, another signaller’s been killed.”
“Who?”
“Gunner Andrews, blast them. O my Christ!
His head—split open—when his brains oozed out,
They looked like bloody sweetbreads, in the muck.”